He looked at the food. “What the fuck did you put in the cornbread?”
“I added some fresh tomato and jalapeño. That’s the way we serve it at Falling Rock, and people love it.”
Bug simply grunted, and I was actually surprised that he didn’t order me to remove it from his plate. Maybe the sleeping pill had chilled him out a little.
“Enjoy,” I said as I headed back to the kitchen for my own food.
The show on TV was about crazy people who hoard food and build shelters in their backyards to prepare for the end of the world.
“I think these people know something, and the government’s trying to cover it up,” Bug said, with his mouth full of food.
“Some cover[up,” I said. “It’s on television.”
“Like you fuckin’ know,” he snorted. “You think you’re so smart just ‘cause you’re going to college, but you ain’t got no common sense.”
I listened to Bug insult me while he chowed down on the dinner that I’d made him (and he hadn’t bothered to thank me for.)
“You just wait. I’m gonna build me a shelter, and you’ll be the first one knocking on my door, beggin’ me to take you in when things go to hell.”
I had no worries about the end of the world, and I knew for sure that Bug wasn’t actually going to get off his ass and do a fuckin’ thing about it. He’d been saying stuff like this for years, and he’d yet to lift a finger.
“Really?” I asked, knowing that I shouldn’t, but unable to stop myself. “You’re going to build a shelter? With what money?” I knew it was a mistake as soon as the words left my mouth. I never should have mentioned money.
Bug’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking about money?”
I hoped that I didn’t look as nervous as I felt. “Well, you’ve been bitching about how you don’t have any money, and now you’re going to start building a shelter? That just sounds a little crazy.”
Bug stood up and nearly knocked over his tray table, steadying himself on the arm of the couch. He looked a little lightheaded, and I hoped like hell that the sleeping pill was working. He walked out of the room and into the kitchen, and I could hear him open the refrigerator and pull out a beer. I hear the sound of the bottle cap hitting the counter, where I was sure he’d expect me to pick it up later, and Bug walked slowly back into the room.
“Krystal,” he said, in a low voice that gave me chills. “My money is none of your fuckin’ business. We ain’t married, and if we was, you still wouldn’t be privy to club business. You hear me?”
I wasn’t about to provoke him any further. “Yes.”
He sat back down, and I suppressed a sigh of relief. He polished off his steak and most of his salad, leaving the cornbread (which was delicious, if I did say so myself) untouched. He finished off his beer, set it on the table, and announced that he was finished.
I correctly interpreted his statement to mean that he wanted me to clear his dishes, so I left my half-eaten dinner there, while I moved his dirty dishes next to the sink.
“Want another whiskey?” I called, hoping he would.
“Yeah.”
I emptied the last of the crushed sleeping pill into the glass, added whiskey and a splash of water, and brought it to him. “You’re out of ice. Those trays don’t fill themselves.”
“Whatever,” he said, taking the glass and throwing back half of it in one long drink.
I went back into the kitchen and put the dishes I’d used in the dishwasher, leaving all of the other dirty ones right were they’d been when I walked in. I took my time, and when I’d finished up as much cleaning as I was willing to do, I tiptoed into the living room, hoping to find Bug having trouble keeping his eyes open.
Not only were his eyes closed, but his mouth was hanging open, snores starting to rival the television volume. Perfect. I could start my search.
I went over to the dining room table and reached in all of the pockets of his leather jacket that he’d thrown over one of the chairs. Nothing. I quietly went into his bedroom, where I knew he stashed his weed and cash sometimes, and I went through all of the dresser and nightstand drawers. I did find weed, but no cash.
“Goddammit,” I whispered. “Where would he have put it?”
I realized that he may have stashed the money in the saddlebags of his bike, and the thought of touching his bike without permission nearly scared me to death. If my rent money was anywhere on that bike, though, I simply had to find it.
Walking back through the living room, I was amused to see a little drool starting at the edge of Bug’s open mouth, and I hoped like hell that I had a few more minutes before he woke up. I hurried through to the kitchen and quietly let myself into the garage. The bike was there, of course, and I knew the keys would be in the ignition. I opened the saddlebags, and sure enough, there was my money. I didn’t stop to count it, but I shoved the roll of twenties into my pocket and got the hell out of the garage, remembering to close the door quietly.